The Straw Men(9)

‘Enter!’ a voice called. Athelstan paused.

‘Enter!’

‘Cut down the hanged men,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Cut them down now. Let me pray over them. God knows their souls may not have left their bodies. Judgement could still await.’

‘Enter!’ the voice screamed. Athelstan took a deep breath. He knelt down on the cobbles, head bowed, ignoring the repeated shouts to enter. Silence fell. A window opened and the two dangling corpses were cut from their ropes to tumble on to the ground. Ignoring the faces frozen in hideous death, Athelstan administered the last rites to both victims. He blessed their corpses, rose to his feet and walked up the steps into the circular tap room, a murky place of shifting shadows. All the windows were shuttered, the only light thrown by squat tallow candles and narrow lantern horns. A figure loomed out of the gloom, head covered by a pointed hood, a red mask hiding his face, his heavy, draping cloak hung loose to reveal a war belt with sword and dagger sheaths. Other shapes stepped into the pools of light, dressed all the same, sinister phantasms of the night, armed and menacing. Athelstan stared round. Minehost Simon lay badly wounded, along with two servants. A Friar of the Sack and a fat, painted whore, a bushy orange wig almost hiding her face, sat like terrified children on a bench against the wall. They gazed owl-eyed at Athelstan, except for the whore, who put her face in her hands and began to sob.

‘Well,’ the friar asked, ‘what now?’

‘We trust you, Athelstan. The earthworms say you are not one of us yet you are sympathetic.’ The voice of the masked figure confronting him scarcely rose above a whisper.

‘The earthworms?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You mean my poor parishioners who, according to you, will spin Fortune’s wheel and change the power of Heaven.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Gaunt will burn this city before he allows that to happen.’

‘We shall burn it for him – an easy enough task.’

‘Gallows and gibbets are just as easily erected.’

The masked figure laughed softly.

‘Why did you hang those two poor unfortunates – aren’t they earthworms too?’

‘They tried to escape; that can only mean they were either spies or intent on raising the alarm. They had to be punished; a warning to the rest.’

Athelstan stared around the gloomy tap room. He glimpsed about six Upright Men – others, he reasoned, must be in the galleries above. He also noticed their war belts and quivers, the arbalests, maces and clubs and, in his secret dread, Athelstan sensed this would end in bloodshed.

‘So what must I do now?’ Athelstan tried to keep his voice calm.

‘We are near the river.’ The Upright Man went on to demand, ‘We want one of the royal war barges from the Tower. We—’ He abruptly paused. Athelstan heard a whooshing sound followed by a scream in the galleries above; something hot and fiery smashed into the shutters of the Roundhoop. The Upright Man drew his sword. Athelstan gestured at the hostages.

‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’ He hastened over and dragged the friar and the whore to their feet. She kept her face down, her voice squeaky, muttering curses in the patois of the London slums. Athelstan pushed them both towards the door. He glanced swiftly around; more fiery missiles smashed into the wooden shutters. Smoke billowed down the stairs. Athelstan hurried towards the door. An Upright Man emerged out of the murk, pulling the red mask from his bearded face. He gazed wild-eyed at the friar and raised his sword threateningly, moving sideways as Athelstan tried to avoid him. More missiles smashed into the walls. Thick smoke curled. The air was shattered by screams and yells. The Upright Man lowered his sword, an almost beseeching look in his eyes.

‘I didn’t know!’ Athelstan yelled at him. The whore close to the door collapsed to her knees, sobbing in terror.

‘I didn’t know,’ Athelstan repeated.

The young man let his sword arm droop then abruptly lurched forward, mouth open. He tried to speak but gagged on his words. He staggered towards Athelstan before collapsing to the floor; the yard-long shaft had pierced him deep in the back between his shoulder blades. The stricken man rolled to one side, stretching his head back as if searching for someone. Athelstan knelt beside him as royal archers and men-at-arms surged through the door, knocking aside Athelstan and the other hostages in their rush to engage the Upright Men. The smoke was thickening, reducing individuals to mere shapes. More soldiers charged in. Swords and daggers flashed in the light. Blood snaked across the floor, trickling over the green supple rushes. The friar and the whore, on all fours, crept out on to the steps. Athelstan was tempted to follow but he could still feel the Upright Man’s body warm against his shaking hand. He turned the man over on to his side; he was dying, the fluttering eyes dulling, blood bubbling out of nose and mouth.